A Study in High School
by Kirbster12
Summary: Serial sequel to A Case of Green Smudges and Custard Cream Crumbs. Teenlock  Woot!  Rated T for strong language, sexual themes and drug references. Johnlock 3
1. An Old Acquaintance

Eleven-year old John Watson stood warily in the imposing schoolyard. The first day of high school had been looming ever closer, and now it was upon him, like a cat trapping a mouse between its claws. Through the crowds of kids, he recognised, with a squirm of pleasure, Greg Lestrade, a boy who he had not seen for eight years. Greg was slimmer and more cold-looking than he had been in his youth, though John noted that he'd still retained the semi-neat haircut. Glancing away from Greg, he saw another familiar face, though not a pleasant one. A lumpy, sallow-skinned boy, by the name of Jack Anderson was lounging on a bench, not looking the slightest bit nervous. Beside him stood Sally Donovan, whose figure was enhanced by the shockingly short skirt she had chosen to wear.

"John Watson…."

_It was him!_

Sherlock Holmes had appeared beside him. Pale as ever, dressed in a sweeping trench coat and blue-grey scarf, Sherlock was leaning against thin air with a kind of casual arrogance. He had acquired a tall, willowy figure and long, graceful fingers that were presently running through his dark curls.

"Sherlock!" John shrieked in delight, enveloping his old friend in a crushing hug. In return, the boy slapped him around the face.

"What the bloody hell was that for?"

"You left me…" Sherlock replied, hurt edging his velvety tones.

"I never wanted…..It was my parents! They took me out of nursery after they heard about what happened! If you should be slapping anyone, it's James Moriarty-"

"Don't say that name in front of me…" Sherlock growled, his fists clenched.

"Sorry….Anyway, have you seen Greg?"

"I have now…." Sherlock remarked, as Lestrade himself wandered over.

"Hello….." Greg said, with noticeably strained politeness. The two boys stared hard at each other, before Lestrade broke away from Sherlock's icy gaze.

"Greg! It's so good to see you! Want to hang around with us today?"

"Thanks, John….but I've got other friends…." At that moment, Anderson and Donovan came to stand beside him, as if summoned.

"Oh, Good Lord. Don't tell me they're here too…" Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"Hello, Freak…." Anderson scowled. John thought he had good reason to behave antagonistically towards Sherlock. The last time John had seen the two boys together, it had resulted in Jack acquiring a spectacular nosebleed.

"Piss off, Anderson…" Sherlock replied lazily. "What's this nonsense, Greg?" he looked sharply at Lestrade, who shuffled his feet awkwardly.

"Well….after what happened…..My mum said I shouldn't talk to you anymore….."

"Okay….so it's then perfectly logical to then associate yourself with perhaps the most infuriatingly dull people on the planet….That's really clever, Greg." He replied, his baritone voice thick with sarcasm. "So, I suppose this how it's going to be now….My team against yours…." He gave a mocking laugh. "Well, on your own head be it!" Sherlock stalked off in the direction of the school's entrance. John raced after him.

The main hall was large and packed with nervous-looking new arrivals. Sherlock spotted a girl whose neatly pressed shirt and suspicious glances immediately gave away the fact that her father was a lawyer. A boy's scruffy trainers taught him that he regularly went jogging in the woods.

A ferrety man with watery blue eyes and thick glasses called them children to attention and started explaining about form groups, lunchtime, and the usual drivel. Throughout the lecture, Sherlock hissed his deductions about this rat-like idiot to John, who chuckled at his friend's bluntness.

The teachers were now handing out timetables and assigning the newcomers to form groups. John looked down at his schedule and saw he had double Physics first. Sherlock shot a sidelong glance at him, giving a small smile.

"Double Physics?"

"Yep…"

The two of them, along with about twenty others assembled outside the science block. Sherlock noticed several girls giving him strange looks.

"Why are they staring at me?"

John grinned "Can't you tell? They _fancy_ you, Sherlock!"

"That's ridiculous! They don't even know me!"

They would have continued their exchange, were it not for the teacher appearing at that precise moment. He was tall, with rather red ears and dark hair spiked up with gel.

"Smoker…." Sherlock hissed to John, who raised his eyebrows. They all followed the stranger into the lab, John sitting down next to Sherlock on a wooden stool. The teacher had now written his name on the board, declaring himself to be Mr Jeeve.

"Hello, everyone!" Mr Jeeve had a strange, slightly nasal voice. "I'll be teaching you Physics…Before we get on with the lesson, I'll need to learn your names. You!" he pointed at Greg Lestrade.

"Greg Lestrade…" he sounded a little nervous.

Mr Jeeve nodded, and then continued to prompt the rest of the class.

"Jack Anderson.."

"Sally Donovan"

"John Watson.."

He stopped when he got to Sherlock.

"You must be Sherlock Holmes...I've been told to be careful with you…"

"Well, If I were you, sir, I'd be careful with whoever gives you your information…" he flashed a smile, causing the girls he had seen earlier to giggle.

Mr Jeeve glared at the boy sitting in front of him, but said nothing. "Right, on with the lesson…Today, we'll be learning about the Solar System."

Sherlock yawned very audibly, prompting those annoying girls to laugh again. Mr Jeeve scowled at him, then proceeded to set them a hideously dull essay, entitled '_Discuss your own opinion on the various theories on the composition of our Solar System'_

Twenty minutes later, John looked up from his essay to see Sherlock lounging on his stool, sneaking furtive glances at his various classmates. John realized that Sherlock had written a grand total of two sentences:

_**The Solar System is too dull for me to pay any attention to. People who come up with astrological theories are idiots.**_

Mr Jeeve came over to collect their essays. He tutted very loudly, then declared to the class "It seems some of us think they are complacent enough to not pay any respect to their elders and betters…"

Sherlock waved his hand in the air "Elders, maybe…but, I'm not sure about betters…"

"_Shut up!" _John hissed, kicking his friend under the table.

Mr Jeeve was growing angrier by the minute. How was it that this eleven-year old could publicly slander him? Although….It was his first day, so the lenient man inside him told himself to let the boy off. He dismissed the class brusquely, glowering at Sherlock as he left the lab.

John consulted his timetable "Apparently, we've got a break, then double Chemistry…"

Sherlock's eyes lit up "Break? That means tea!"

A couple of minutes later, they were sat down in the cafeteria, a scalding paper cup of tea in their hands. Sherlock drank deeply, passing a rich sigh of satisfaction as he swallowed. At that moment, a girl Sherlock remembered from the Physics lesson approached them.

"Hi! I'm Martina Summerby! I found that lesson fascinating, didn't you?" She was looking directly at Sherlock, her eyelashes fluttering incessantly.

"No…" Sherlock replied coldly. "Would you please go away…Your eyes do not need to be constantly cleansed, so I suggest you stop flickering your eyelashes, otherwise, they'll run out of moisture….Goodbye!"

Martina gave him an injured look, then flounced off, presumably to join her 'girlfriends'. Sherlock saw John looking at him in despair.

"That was a bit rude!"

"So?"

"So? Sherlock, you know she fancies you! You can't just insult any girl who comes within three feet of you…"

"Why not?"

John gave an exasperated sigh "It's common knowledge, Sherlock! God, I'd forgotten how clueless you always were about this sort of thing…"

"Sherlock ignored him "So…Why do you think they find me so desirable?"

John looked at him awkwardly for a moment. "Your hair…...Your eyes…..Your smile….and those damn cheekbones-" he broke off suddenly, realizing he had said far too much.

Sherlock looked indifferent to what he'd just heard, merely raising his eyebrows. John was still an outstanding crimson colour.

The bell gave a shrill, piercing tone, signalling for everyone to move to their next lessons. Sherlock swept from the cafeteria, followed by John and (to Sherlock's distaste) Martina Summerby and several assorted hangers-on.

"Don't they have lives?" Sherlock exclaimed incredulously, once they lost the girls down a narrow corridor. John gave an amused smile at this comment, and happily listened to Sherlock's voiced revulsion of the female sex, which continued until they were lined up outside the Chemistry lab.

"Hello, children!" A French-accented voice called over the persistent chatter. "I am Doctor Clemenceau…" he marched inside, as if leading an army battalion. The class looked wary for a few moments, and then followed him inside.

It was as if the room had been designed for the explicit purpose of Sherlock's experiments: Lethal liquids dripped into beakers from adjoining pipes, Bunsen burners lit the room with ghostly orange flames, and the room was lined with rack upon rack of test tubes. Sherlock's face broke into the widest grin John had ever seen.

"This is going to be fun."

"Okay, everyone! Now, have you heard of the periodic table of e-" he stopped, seeing Sherlock's hand waving in the air. "Yes, Mr Holmes…."

Sherlock took a deep breath " Hydrogen, Helium, Lithium, Beryllium, Boron, Carbon, Nitrogen, Oxygen, Flourine…"

Doctor Clemenceau didn't bother to stop the boy as he continued on a seemingly endless tirade.

Roughly a minute later, Sherlock finished with a resounding "Ununoctium!", prompting the class to erupt in a spontaneous applause. John gave him a friendly slap on the back.

"Okay…Now, we're going to have a practical session." Sherlock beamed again, hardly able to believe his luck. "I want you to divide into pairs. The person you're with now will be your lab partner for the entire year, so choose wisely…"

At once, there was a scraping of stools as everyone stood up. Sherlock was immediately surrounded by kids begging him to be lab partners. The boy elbowed the clamouring tweens aside, until he found John, took him by the wrist and dragged him over to a bench without a word. The rejected children all scowled in his direction.

"Now everyone has their partners, I'd like one of you to come up and collect a Bunsen Burner, test tubes, tongs, and samples of the various chemical compounds on the bench in front of me"

John watched as Sherlock went up towards the bench with utmost confidence, as if he'd been doing this his whole life (which, John reminded himself, he probably had). Several moments later, he reappeared at their bench, his arms laden with mysterious jars and bottles. He placed them all down on the counter, turned the gas tap on and waited.

"So…Which one shall we test first?" John asked

"Well…I have to admit, I am particularly partial to arsenic….You see, naturally occurring arsenic has a fascinating trigonal crystal structure and it can form a distorted octahedral complex…"

John let out a dull "Guh?" of confusion. In reply, Sherlock measured out some arsenic powder into a test tube and held it over the flame. Loud "ooooh"s of astonishment sounded from around the room, as the flame flickered bright blue.

"Hmmmm…" Sherlock wondered aloud. "I wonder what'd happen if…." He poured a couple of different powders into the test tube with the arsenic.

"Umm, Sherlock?" John tapped his friend on the shoulder.

"What?"

"The test tube…" John pointed a shaking finger at the tube, which had been set alight.

"It's fine, It's-"

BANG!

The test tube exploded, showering both boys with shards of glass.

"Well, that was interesting…." Sherlock remarked, picking glass out of his hair.

Luckily, none of the glass had actually got stuck in either boy's skin, so after a quick check over by Doctor Clemenceau, he pronounced them free to leave.

"Won't your mum be angry?" John asked as they headed towards the cafeteria for lunch.

"No, no. She'll be fine with it. It's Mycroft I'm worried about…"

"Mycroft? Why?"

"The fool's taken it upon himself to educate me in the behaviour of a respectable British citizen." Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"Why is he so uptight about it?"

"Now he's studying politics at uni, he thinks he's already part of the government. "he gave a derisive laugh "And, MPs don't have any wayward brothers to sort out." He grinned at John, who chuckled obediently.

They had now entered the cafeteria, a seething mass of noise, which John doubted even Sherlock could make any sense of. On one table, a furious food fight was being conducted.

"Déjà vu" John muttered to Sherlock, as an apple flew through the air. Laughing, Sherlock caught it and tossed it in the exact same arc he had done so long ago.

Both boys grabbed a tray, and John saw Sherlock disappear through the crowd, his coattails flapping behind him. Sighing, John loaded his tray with food and peered over the hordes of kids. All of a sudden, John heard a baritone bellow of "ANDERSON!"

"Oh, God…" John heaved another sigh, and headed towards the source of the commotion. There was a small crowd of kids stood watching what could only have been described as a cage match. The barrel-chested form of Jack Anderson was cowering pathetically on the floor. Sherlock stood over him, pinning Anderson's left arm to the floor with his right foot. The witnessing children stared aghast at the enigmatic figure that had conquered the toughest kid in school.

"No! Stop! He's the bully! He's a FREAK!" Anderson pleaded with the crowd.

"Shut up!" Sherlock replied coldly, moving his foot to Anderson's exposed chest and stepping down hard. Anderson let out a strangled squeal.

"Stop, Sherlock! You're hurting him!" John burst through the crowd and grabbed his friend's forearm.

"Get off, John!"

"No, Sherlock!" John bellowed, dragging him away from Anderson, who had now stood up and was making offensive gestures at Sherlock and bellowing "Freak!" at the top of his lungs. Several kids took up his chant, and soon "Freak!" was echoing around the room. John felt a heavy blow to his right temple, sending him sprawling onto the canteen floor. Blearily, he turned to see Sherlock storming from the room.

Anderson let out a sardonic laugh, and grinned towards several of his newfound cronies.

"Did you see his face? That conceited, psychotic, abnormal little-"

SMACK!

Anderson swore violently as several of his teeth were knocked out.

"Are you bloody mental?" Anderson screamed at John-but the boy was no longer in front of him. He had charged out of the cafeteria and was presently charging down a deserted corridor, screaming his friend's name.

"SHERLOCK!" he hollered, sprinting out of a door, which led out into the grounds. Expansive tarmac paths spidered out in front of him, punctuated with clusters of red brick buildings. Somewhere far away, he heard the distant sound of music. John stood still for a moment, his entire consciousness focused on the elusive melody. Just then, a violent chord split the serene air, then, like a hound after blood, John tore down one of the routes, until he found himself in front of the music block. Cautiously pushing open the wooden doors, John stepped into the long narrow corridor. It was swelteringly hot, and, as he pushed open another door, he found his palms sticky with sweat. Another note sounded just as John closed the door. He pivoted round and dashed off in the other direction. Once he reached the end of the passageway, he shoved yet another door open. Sherlock silently acknowledged his friend's sudden appearance with a scowl, then resumed playing the violin he was balancing on his arm. John noted that the melody was very dark and aggressive, matching the stormy looks Sherlock kept throwing him. John didn't know how to express how he was feeling in words, so he settled for gently resting his hand on Sherlock's forearm. His friend stopped playing at once; stiffening as if he'd just had an electric shock. He looked up at John with moist grey eyes.

"John…."

"What? What's the matter?"

"Nothing…." Sherlock smiled. It was not a thing of mischief or mockery, but a smile of genuine tenderness. He had put the violin down on a table.

"Why did you fight Anderson earlier?"

"He called you a…a….."

"Go on, say it"

"He called you a nutter…"

"Is that all?" John barely suppressed a laugh. "I've been called much worse, Sherlock, honestly!"

"I know…" he smiled again. "But….I just couldn't bear hearing him talking about you like that…"

"You really care that much?" John raised his eyebrows.

"Yes…Yes I do…" he replied softly, reaching to stroke John's smooth cheek with his long fingers.

"Sherlock….Sherlock, what're you doing?"

"Shut up, John" his voice was a whisper. "I'm experimenting."

He leaned forward, moving his hands down, so that they gently caressed John's waist. John's nerves were sending tingling sensations throughout his body. He supressed a thrilled shiver as Sherlock pulled him close to his body, his lips travelling down, until they met John's own. They touched passionately, and John felt no objection to the soft, yet firm pressure on his own mouth. The two broke apart, looking at each other with intense adoration. Then, John's feelings of compassion for his friend overcame him, and, with a surge of adrenaline, he kissed Sherlock back.


	2. A Quiet Year

Neither boy spoke of the tender moment they had shared over the next few weeks, so how the rumour thrived was anyone's guess, but, by Christmas, almost everyone in the school knew that Sherlock Holmes had kissed John Watson.

Once the news was out, many students seemed to go out of their way to make life difficult for the twosome; they whistled the 'Wedding March' whenever they saw them passing in the corridors, and whispers of 'gay' followed them around, along with the long-standing mutters of 'freak' that were reserved for Sherlock's benefit. The situation was not abetted by the teachers, Mr Jeeve especially, who had been hoping to get Sherlock back ever since the term's first Physics lesson. When he saw the pair sitting together as usual, he couldn't resist a jibe

"Are the happy couple going to announce their engagement?"

This comment provoked a fuming bellow of "WE'RE NOT GAY!" from both boys, to which Anderson snorted loudly and muttered "Okay, then…" in disbelief.

The day they were due to break up, Sherlock collared John as they were gathering their belongings to take home over Christmas.

"Listen, John….I'm not really one for the whole 'playdate' nonsense, but, I was wondering whether…."

"Yes?" John pressed

"Whether you'd like to…visit me over the holidays…." He wrung his hands awkwardly.

"You mean, come to your house?" John beamed "Oh, Sherlock, I'd love to!"

"So…How about New Year's Eve? That way, you'll be able to meet the whole family…"

"That sounds fantastic! We never do much for the New Year, so…."

Sherlock gave a single nod and patted John on the back, before sweeping of towards a black Porsche, presumably his mother's. The car gave a feline purr, and then glided, ghostlike, out of the school gates and towards the crimson setting sun.

After a comparatively dull Christmas day, in which John received yet more jumpers from his grandmother, and plenty of pleading with both parents, John was finally allowed to go to the Holmes's New Year's party. On the big day, John got his father to drop him off in front of Sherlock's house. John barely supressed a gasp of awe: a sprawling manor stood proudly against a backdrop of majestic fir trees, coupled with a fathomless cerulean sky. A snow white gravel driveway meandered its way up to polished wooden doors, trimmed with silver handles. John cautiously walked up the drive, aware that with every footstep he took, a dull crunch sounded. He presently reached the door, bow close enough to see the silver sparkling in the weak afternoon sun. Knowing it would be rude to just barge in without introduction, John made the resolute decision to ring the gleaming copper doorbell, which presented itself just above John's head. After his finger came into contact with the small button, John chuckled upon hearing a delightfully rude noise, as if someone had farted.

The door was answered by a man with neatly trimmed brown hair, wearing an impeccably clean suit.

"Ah, John! We were expecting you. Come, come…" he beckoned John into a long hallway. John thought his voice sounded familiar, but he couldn't quite remember where he'd heard it before…then, he realised. It was Sherlock's older brother, Mycroft.

Mycroft led John up a staircase coming off from the hall. John couldn't help but notice the garlands intertwined up the banister were coloured in macabre greys, blood red and sinister purple. On the landing, John noticed a stuffed moose head, although it was hard to tell what creature it was, due to the fact that it was swathed in blood-stained bandages.

"My brother's doing…" Mycroft replied grimly, seeing the objects of John's interest. "The second door on the left…" he added, pointing at said door, before stepping into what was presumably his own room opposite. John rapped on the door with his fist, and a dull grunt came from inside. He pushed the door open to see Sherlock hanging, bat-like, over the side of his bed.

"Oh good….you're here. I was getting dreadfully bored." He smiled, but did not shift his position.

John looked around the bedroom with interest. It certainly had a….Sherlockian air to it. The room was dark compared to the hallway from which John had entered. A violin case leant against blue-grey walls, and John's eyes were drawn to a skull. A skull that looked suspiciously like the one that had, until a few weeks ago, resided upon the neck of the biology lab's skeleton.

"No experiments?" John asked with a grin.

"Downstairs. I use the kitchen as my base of operations…its safe." He added, seeing John's horrified expression. "Mostly…."

"I'm really looking forward to meeting your family…"

"They won't be here for a few hours yet…" John thought he heard his friend mutter 'Thank God…'under his breath. "Some are coming all the way from Vienna, just for this stupid party…" he rolled his eyes.

"Mycroft answered the door. I thought he was at uni?" John was puzzled.

"He's managed to tear himself away for the holidays." Sherlock did not seem happy about this. "He loves all these family get-togethers, the little sod."

At that moment, the 'little sod' bellowed "HEY! KEEP IT DOWN!"

"His diet's not going well…" Sherlock smirked. "He said he was going to cut down over Christmas, but I caught him gorging on mince pies yesterday."

John chuckled loudly.

Several hours later, Sherlock's mother came into the room.

"Dear, you've got to get changed. Agrippina's just said she'll be here in ten minutes."

"But…" Sherlock scowled at his mother "Yes, Mummy…." John noticed him stick his tongue out at his mum's retreating form.

"Come out, Sherlock! It can't be that bad!" John pleaded with his friend, who had been hiding in the bathroom for the past five minutes.

The door suddenly burst open, and Sherlock looked at John in revulsion "It is…"John took in his friend's appearance. In truth, the suit wasn't a complete disaster, although, he was not sure the shirt needed quite so many frills.

"Be honest, John…Is it awful?"

"Sherlock, you look _fine!_ Just go downstairs!" At that moment, another trumpeting fart blared through the house. Swearing loudly, Sherlock charged downstairs, two at a time. John followed him shyly into the grand hallway, where three people were now stood.

"Aunt Agrippina, Uncle Marius and Cousin Tatiana…" Sherlock hissed to John, as he shook hands with a rotund woman in a floral dress, a thin man with a handlebar moustache and a blonde girl, whom John guessed was about his age.

"Hi, Sherlock." Tatiana gave the boy an undisguised look of admiration.

Sherlock grunted a reply, before wandering out of the room towards the kitchen, and returning moments later carrying a platter brimming with canapés. Agrippina and Marius waved him away, but Tatiana snatched up a handful, then, remembering her manners, she muttered an embarrassed thank you.

Once the clock struck nine, and the final guest (Great Aunt Aurelia, who had burst in, clothed in a flowing ball gown and a white powdered wig) had arrived, the lights were dimmed and music blared from loudspeakers in the corners of the drawing room. Numerous trays of food stood on a table for the company to help themselves. Presently, Sherlock approached John holding a small goblet.

"Sherlock…Is that…"

"Cider, yeah…" he grinned. "Want some?"

"No, no…I'm fine…"

Sherlock gave a grunt of indifference, and then proceeded to tip the contents of the chalice down his throat. John watched in fascination as Sherlock's lanky figure meandered through the crowd and out of sight. He dodged whirling dancers until he got to the food table, and then helped himself to a jam tart. From this vantage point, John saw Mycroft waltzing with a rosy-cheeked Holmes cousin, whereas Tatiana was fighting her way through the horde, seemingly searching for someone.

As the hours passed, John had not caught a glimpse of Sherlock, and was beginning to worry. Suddenly, a booming bellow diverted his attention to the gathering, which had moved out onto the front lawn of the house. John ran to join the procession, where a fireworks display had been set up, and the throng was cheering loudly as the colours blossomed over the inky black sky. As the last banger showered the air with golden sparks, John saw Sherlock's father produce a microphone and shout across the grounds.

"TEN!"

The mob picked up the countdown, and John himself roaring with all the rest.

"NINE…EIGHT!...SEVEN!..."

He only wished Sherlock was here beside him…

"SIX!...FIVE!...FOUR!..."

Where was Sherlock now?

"THREE!...TWO!...ONE…"

All at once, the garden was alive with the shrieks of excitement. John had to cover his ears to block out the din. Several feet away, a dark-haired figure gave Tatiana a peck on the cheek, before staggering away. John gasped as the figure's features were thrown into relief. He saw Tatiana punch the air in triumph.

"He's drunk!" John bellowed to her "He won't remember any-"

He was cut off as Sherlock locked lips with him. Although soured with alcohol, his mouth was soft and gentle. Out of the corner of his eye, John saw Cousin Tatiana give him a look of shock, betrayal and disgust…but, that didn't matter anymore. They broke apart, breathing heavily.

"How many have you had?" John enquired sternly

"Two….Or was it five?" he slurred, laughing a little too loudly. "I dunno, John…" he trailed off, lurching forward alarmingly. John grabbed his friend's arm before he pitched over completely, and then dragged him back inside the house, bracing himself for the foul mood Sherlock would be in the next morning.

As the class settled down on the first day back after Christmas, an unnatural hush fell across the room as, one by one; their eyes fell on the additional desk that had been placed on John's left. Even Sherlock paused from informing John what every member of their class had got for Christmas when he laid eyes on the desk. A bad omen.

The teacher wandered in, shocked at finding his class so subdued. After a moment's puzzlement, he remembered what he was about to say.

"Class, we have a new student joining us today." He stepped aside, revealing a face John thought he'd never see again. Although taller and neater looking, there was no mistaking those protuberant eyes, that unsettling smile, the way the boy rubbed his hands together, as if plotting something.

John suddenly noticed that Sherlock was unusually quiet. He placed a concerned hand on his friend's forearm, and was shocked to feel Sherlock trembling.

"Are you all right?" John whispered.

Sherlock gulped noisily, then opened his mouth…and swore very loudly indeed.

"MR HOLMES!" the teacher bellowed. "Kindly refrain from using such foul language in my presence." He glared at Sherlock before continuing. "Now, Jim, go and sit in the seat next to John-"

"NO!" Sherlock roared, standing up, and knocking his chair over in the process. The teacher gave him a puzzled look, so he reworked his sentence. "Er…I mean…Bathroom, sir!" he swept out of the room, in the direction of the lavatories.

After a few minutes, John came racing in to join him. A worrying sight met his eyes: Sherlock sat hunched against the tiled wall, staring blankly ahead, as if John was invisible. He was so pale that he made the tiles look grey. His insipid pallor further enunciated the dark circles under his eyes. John stepped forward and rested his hand gently on his friend's shoulder. Sherlock gave no indication that he had noticed the gesture, and simply stated "He's back…" expressionlessly, and without moving a muscle.

"I know, Sherlock, I know…" John tried to be reassuring, but Sherlock simply sat there, murmuring "He's back, He's back…" over and over again.

"You look terrible…I've never seen you like this."

His friend sagged noticeably and then replied in a very small voice "I'm scared, John….I'm scared for you…"

"But, he might have changed. He hasn't even spoken to us yet…"

Sherlock shook his head darkly "Last time we saw him, he tried to kill you. And I assure you, he intends to succeed this time."

Sherlock scowled as a small scrap of paper fluttered onto his desk. Although there was no signature, he knew perfectly well who it was from. Opening it, he read the first verse of' Jack and Jill'. He thought for a moment, then quickly stowed the note in his pocket for safekeeping.

"I told you!" he declared triumphantly a few hours later, waving the paper John's startled face. John looked carefully at the ditty written on the scrap, and then frowned.

"Sherlock, it's just a nursery rhyme! There's nothing remotely sinister about this. You're just getting paranoid over a stupid note!"

The next day, John would find out just how wrong he was.

The two of them strolled into the playground casually that morning, and John was surprised to see a large gaggle of assorted teachers and students, Greg Lestrade included. Greg turned round and, upon seeing Sherlock, he breathed a sigh of relief.

"Sherlock! There's been a double murder!"

John was not completely surprised when he saw Sherlock beam in exhilaration. "Fantastic! Come _on,_ John!" the boy found himself being dragged by the collar, Sherlock's long fingers digging into his neck, in the direction of the commotion

"Out of the way, you idiots!" Sherlock shouted, elbowing sobbing pupils and blank-faced teachers aside, eager to get a look at the corpses. The assembly allowed him to pass without difficulty, and even the teachers didn't give him a second glance. John stood anxiously at the side lines, watching Sherlock as he knelt over the still forms of a boy and girl of about thirteen.

"Twins…" Sherlock murmured, noting the similar eye shape, hair colour and jaw structure. The girl's blonde tresses streamed out behind her on the concrete, while the boy's hair was gelled in a neat parting. The two both had seemingly identical swellings on the crown of their skulls. He also noted that the boy's body was cooler, as if he'd been killed first.

"What were their names?" Sherlock asked, speaking to no-one in particular

"Higgins…" the English teacher, Mrs Bentley replied. "Jack and Jill Higgins"

At her words, Sherlock glanced sharply up at John, who mumbled "Coincidence…" under his breath.

"Greg, come here…" Sherlock beckoned the boy over. "Tell me what you think…"

Greg obeyed, and stepped awkwardly towards the bodies. Donovan and Anderson flanked him, much to Sherlock's displeasure.

"Well…." Greg squinted down at the pair of corpses. "Well….." he muttered again, giving Sherlock a panicked glance. "Well….."

"Oh, shut up!" Sherlock shoved the boy aside, before gingerly turning both bodies onto their stomachs. What he saw made him recoil noticeably. Words were etched into the flesh of the victims, as if cut with a scalpel. Sherlock noted that the writing was very skilful, as if the killer had experience with this gruesome craft. Scraped across Jack's shoulder blades was another rhyme, this time 'Humpty Dumpty', whereas Jill had been imprinted with just two horrifically disturbing words, scrawled in imposing capitals: GET SHERLOCK.

Greg stared, wide-eyed at the inscription, before remembering himself. "So…How are we going to work out who it was?"

"Oh, I know who it was…." Sherlock replied with a grim smile. "But, now, we're going to have to work out where he's going to strike next."

"You seem pretty sure of yourself." Anderson interjected. He'd remained silent throughout the incident.

Sherlock gave him a withering look "I'm Sherlock-effing-Holmes! Of course I'm sure of myself! And I am also sure that while Greg and I were investigating, you and Donovan were snogging each other's faces off…." To this last statement was met with a startled gasp from Donovan, whose shirt was rather creased, and lipstick smeared.

"Like….Oh, I don't know….You and John?" he flourished his arm towards the boy in question, who stepped back, eager for the ground to swallow him up. The congregation, staff included, descended into an unnatural hush. Sherlock stared hard at Anderson, before replying very softly; "I don't deny it…" The stillness of the air made the declaration sound ten times louder, and as soon as the words were out of Sherlock's mouth, it was as if someone was revving up the engine of a motorbike: The assembly grew louder and louder, until it was impossible to hear one's own thoughts. It continued, till John had the sense to bellow "SHUT UP! THIS IS A CRIME SCENE!"

Sherlock gave him a brief nod of thanks, before leaning over the corpses once more and continuing to examine them. "Killed by a blow from a blunt object…Jack was killed first…Then Jill came tumbling after…"

"So, Sherlock…Who do you think did it?" Greg looked at him expectantly.

"It was our friend Jim…." Sherlock looked first at John, then at Greg. "Our good friend James Moriarty…"

At lunch that day, John was not entirely surprised to find Sherlock sitting alone at a table, hunched over a piece of paper. Looking over his friend's shoulder, he saw Sherlock had copied out the carvings found on Jack Higgins' body, and was now gazing at it with such intensity that John would not have been surprised if it burst into flames there and then.

"It's a clue…" he murmured, prodding the paper with a long finger.

"Hello to you, too." John joked, sitting down in a seat opposite. "Sherlock, when was the last time you ate?" He asked, seeing no form of sustenance on the table.

"Hmm…" he replied thoughtfully "About a week ago, If I am correct...What?" he added, seeing John's concerned face.

"Sherlock." John sighed heavily "This case is taking over your life! You don't eat, you're texting me at unearthly hours, and I've seen you spending entire lessons staring at Moriarty! Just calm down!"

"I'm perfectly calm!" Sherlock retorted, though the frenzied look in his eye, along with seemingly compulsive glances around the room told John otherwise. "What's the point of eating and sleeping when you could be doing something so much more productive?"

"Like stalking Jim?" John challenged.

"Not 'stalking', merely observing for suspicious behaviour.."

"Oh really? I couldn't help but overhear him complain that you followed him to the toilets earlier. If that's not suspicious behaviour, I don't know what is!"

Sherlock said nothing, instead glancing back at the note. Moments later, John almost jumped out of his skin upon hearing Sherlock exclaim "GOTCHA!", presumably to the note. At that instant, the bell buzzed metallically, signalling the beginning of afternoon lessons. Once again, John found himself being dragged down a corridor in Sherlock's vice-like grip. He uttered a cry of protest as his friend pulled him, not in the direction of the maths room, but out a door and into the schoolyard

"Sherlock, we need to get to class!" John hissed in irritation.

"Class? _Boring!_ We're on the trail of a deranged psychopath, and you're worried about algebraic equations?" He smiled broadly, before charging across the forecourt, apparently following an invisible trace. John heaved another exasperated sigh, before sprinting after his friend. He saw Sherlock skid around the corner of the science block, and hastened to catch up with him.

"This is it…" he muttered, staring down at the corpse of a fifteen-year old. John recoiled, alarmed.

The dead boy was a rather rounded fellow, with short dark hair and a pointed nose. He was lying, spread-eagled at the foot of a high wall, and, were it not for his broken neck; John would have thought him to be sleeping.

"Do you think that, maybe….this could have been a suicide-" John stopped when he saw Sherlock shaking his head.

"Nope, this was Moriarty. I've seen this boy in the corridors. He's always surrounded by friends, so that is a dead give-away that this is a murder."

"You mean, he was pushed?"

"Not pushed, exactly. More, frightened into falling, I suspect. Look, plenty of foliage on that side of the wall, perfect for concealment. Jim must have been lying in wait for an ideal victim, then leapt out…" he kneeled down to examine the corpse. "Just as I thought…pressure marks on the neck. Moriarty grabbed his neck, the boy slipped off the wall, and then his neck got broken…"

John nodded. "So, do you reckon we're the first ones to see the body, after Moriarty, of course?"

"Yep…Otherwise, the school would have been alerted. Now…" he gently placed his fingertip in the blood running from the victim's neck, and, to John's horror, sucked it off after a few moments. "Still fresh…The incident can't have happened more than ten minutes ago…"

Out of the corner of his eye, John saw a message inscribed on the wall, seemingly in the dead boy's blood.

"Um…Sherlock?"

"What?" he snapped, glancing up at him. Then he saw what John was looking at. Written across the bricks was "Row, Row, Row Your Boat". He looked at it for a few moments, before murmuring almost disapprovingly "Now, this is just too easy…"

"I don't get it…" John stared hard at the grim rhyme.

" Boats? Water? " Sherlock prompted.

"Ah! The pool!"

"Thank you, John…Now, let's go!"

The two boys sped across the campus, dodging the sudden clusters of students who had emerged, presumably travelling to their next lesson. Perspiration was beading on their foreheads by the time they reached the entrance to the swimming pool. The surrounding area reeked of chlorine, making John feel faintly nauseous. Sherlock hung back for a brief moment, as if fearful of what he might find inside. His hand wavered over the door handle, before he resolutely shoved the door open, and hared inside. The pool was stiflingly hot, and John could barely keep up with Sherlock as he pounded through the complex. John shouted out a warning as his friend reached the slippery tiles, but Sherlock didn't hear him, and continued to charge across the floor, until his feet encountered a particularly slick patch. Arms flailing wildly, as if in a slapstick comedy, he tumbled into the water with a colossal splash. John guffawed as he watched his friend struggled out of the pool, wearing a look strikingly similar to an angry kitten.

"Not a word of this to Mycroft…" he growled, but the statement was not reinforced by the fact he was soaked to the skin and shivering. John snorted again, though stopped suddenly when he realized he was not the only one laughing.

"Oh, jolly good show, Sherly…"

Sherlock spun around sharply and took an automatic step forward.

"Oh… and you've brought Johnny Boy along, too! How nice…"

"Oh, bog off, Jimmy….John, get away from here…"

"I'm staying here!" John replied firmly

"Then he'll kill us both!" Sherlock protested.

"Oh, yes…."Jim smiled "And…you know what?" He walked forward, leaned in, and whispered in Sherlock's ear: _I always keep my promises, Mr Holmes..."_

Sherlock went pale, and then stared hard at Jim, who did exactly the same. It had always been clear to John that Sherlock was the most observant twelve-year-old on the planet, but now it occurred to him that Moriarty might be just as vigilant. It was almost as if each boy was glowering at their mirror image.

"Jim….People have died…"

Moriarty gave him a disdainful look. "That's what people DO! You can't expect to stop everyone from dying; you can't play at being _God_, Sherly…And I thought you didn't care, anyway."

"I don't care….but, unlike you, I'd never stoop to the level of a petty murderer…You're just sick, Jimmy."

"Filthy hypocrite….How many eyeballs have you dissected this week?" Jim challenged

"Just two…" Sherlock admitted. "They belonged to a sheep!" he objected, upon seeing John's wary gaze.

"See what I mean, Johnny? He's a complete psychopath!" Moriarty grinned triumphantly.

"Don't talk to him!" Sherlock stepped in front of John, shielding him from Moriarty's demonic implication. "Not Psychopath….Sociopath." he corrected Jim.

"This is getting boring…I reckon I'd better make things a little more stimulating…." He fingered his jeans pocket, before pulling out something that John couldn't see. He heard a sharp intake of breath from Sherlock.

"What? What is it?" John couldn't stand the suspense, and quickly thrust his friend aside. Jim grinned a deeply unsettling grin, then raised his hand and hurled a glittering silver object directly at John. Suddenly, the boy felt himself flung through the air, tumbling headfirst into the swimming pool. Completely submerged in water, John could not make sense of the muffled conversation happening above the surface. He frog-kicked to the shallows, bursting from the water and sucking in a huge lungful of air. Glancing in the direction of the two boys, he saw Jim's head thrown back in gales of laughter. Sherlock's fists were clenched, and his fringe clung to a chalk-white forehead, shining with sweat.

"Well, I'll see you around, Sherly…" Jim waved jovially, before turning on his heels and skipping towards the exit. "Or not…" he flashed a smirk towards his rival, then slammed the door shut behind him. Sherlock stood, rooted to the spot, his eyes glazed over.

Still in the pool, John waded through the water towards the siding, where his friend was positioned in unnerving silence.

"Sherlock? Sherlock, you all right?"

Sherlock said nothing, but gave a small grunt, before collapsing to the floor, cracking his head on the tiles in the process. John screamed in terror, thrashing through the water and hauling himself onto the edge. He was at his friend's side in an instant, recoiling at the sight of a knife at least three inches long embedded in Sherlock's shoulder, missing his heart by mere centimetres.

"'m bleeding, John…" he murmured thickly

"_No shit, Sherlock!" _John said to himself, glancing at his already blood-stained hands. Gore blossomed over the detective's torn shirt, dripping grotesquely down his body. Yet more bodily fluids matted his curls, seeping across the floor in a revolting river. The blade was deep in his shoulder, so that only the handle was visible.

"It hurts…Why is it hurting?" Sherlock groaned. John could hardly believe how stupid his friend was being-He had a dagger in him, for God's sake! The metallic odour of blood was making him sick, and the fact that it was his best friend's lifeblood made it all ten times worse. Repulsed by what he was about to do, John shot Sherlock and rueful look, before grasping the handle of the knife firmly in a palm sticky with his friend's blood. Realizing what John was going to do, Sherlock gave a tiny nod, but John could sense the fear in him like a knife in his own heart. Closing his eyes, and gritting his teeth, John tugged hard at the dagger. Sherlock let out a terrible, drawn-out scream as the blade was dragged out of his shoulder, before falling back onto the tiles, a mixture of sweat and tears covering his face. If John had not known beforehand, he would have never guessed that Sherlock's shirt was actually white: So much blood had soaked into the material that now it was scarlet, and the fluids did not stop there. Thinking quickly, John tore his friend's shirt off, in order to get a good look at the wound. He was not surprised to see every rib in Sherlock's body, and wondered if he had been entirely truthful when telling John when he's last ate. His form was not exactly muscular -on the contrary, it was emaciated and frail-, but, dear God, was it beautiful! And, had it not been for the situation, John would have said so…but, with the prospect of a now semi-conscious Sherlock bleeding to death in front of him, he quickly decided against the idea, and instead turned his attention to the ragged laceration on his friend's shoulder blade that was still oozing blood even now. It suddenly occurred to John that, even with substantial medicinal knowledge, a boy such as himself would be highly unlikely to be able to save a person's life after they had lost this much blood. What he really needed was a qualified doctor. John made to seek medical help, but a feeble hand on his wrist made him freeze in his tracks.

"Don't leave me, John…" Sherlock whimpered, looking less like a detective and more like a frightened boy than ever. John was shocked at how weak his voice sounded, but he managed a pitying smile. "You really are stupid sometimes… You know that don't you?"

"I-I did it…for you…" he breathed, every word taking enormous effort. His fingers slackened around John's wrist, and as he looked up at John, the latter could see tears clinging to his eyelashes. "John….John, I…." he began, but he was cut off by a great shuddering sigh, his eyelids sliding forwards as it passed.

"Sherlock? Aw, come on! Stop it!" John shook his friend's shoulder firmly. "I really don't have time for this!" he growled, barely disguising the panic in his voice. He clutched his friend's limp wrist, feeling for a pulse. Nothing. John let out an agonised howl as he realised his friend….his best friend…was dead. Never again would he hear Sherlock's silky tones patronising everyone who walked past. Never again would he find Sherlock conducting bizarre experiments with animal entrails. Never again would he feel Sherlock's long fingers caressing his cheek, feel Sherlock's gentle lips touching his own….It was all gone, all thanks to that bastard Moriarty! Glancing down, he saw the knife, still glistening with his friend's blood. John pondered. Nothing was stopping him….It would be so easy just to….._No! _He wouldn't give Moriarty the satisfaction of knowing he had broken John beyond repair. Instead, he gripped the thing that had taken his world from him, and with all his might, hurled the glittering blade as far as he could. It spun through the air before landing, point down in the turquoise waters and sinking to the bottom of the pool.

"Oh, Sherlock…." He murmured, gazing down at the corpse. "What have I done?"

Suddenly , John heard footsteps slapping against the tiles. He stood up numbly, and wandered towards it's source: Greg Lestrade was skidding around the corner.

"I heard raised voices…" he explained, panting a little. "What's up?" he enquired, seeing John's forlorn expression.

"Greg…Greg, Sherlock's….He's…dead…." he finally whispered.

"NO!" Greg bellowed in disbelief. "John…..This is _Sherlock_ we're talking about! He can't be…He just can't!" he added fiercely, shoving John aside and racing to the body. "No…no,no,no!" he repeated, as if it would make his words true. "You ARSE, Moriarty!" he roared, hoping somehow Jim would hear him.

Through his silent tears, John felt a hand on his shoulder. The blurred outline of Mycroft shimmered into view. He didn't even bother asking how the hell the older Holmes had got here.

"Help him…." John pleaded, but Mycroft did not reply, but simply wore an expression of dignified grief. He was suddenly struck by how utterly unconvincing it was. "Go on, you bastard, HELP HIM!" Mycroft shook his head gravely. "You selfish, foul, repugnant PIG!" John snarled. "Your brother…YOUR OWN BROTHER IS DEAD! And you just stand there, pretending to look wretched….he laughed softly. "You hated him, didn't you? You just couldn't wait to be rid of him, to stop him cluttering up your perfect world…Well, congratulations! He's gone….And he's never coming back…."

"John, I understand what you must be feeling at the moment, but…."

"What? Gonna tell me that everything happens for a reason? That he deserved to die?"

"I never said…."

"You didn't say it, you implied it!"

"John…You obviously care very deeply about him…"

"You're wrong…." John growled. "I don't…..I don't care about anything anymore…..Not without him…." Blinking back tears, John thrust Mycroft aside and hurtling from the pool, kicking the door open and crashing outside. Ignoring the sudden torrent of rain that seemed to have arrived with his mourning, He made his way over to a flight of metal stairs, trainer soles clanging as he ascended. After climbing the final treads, he found himself on the flat roof of the science block. He sat heavily on the tiles, letting his wet hair fall across his tear-streaked face. Nothing mattered anymore. Nothing was ever going to be the same. Not without his Sherlock. Not without him.


	3. Sex and the Solar System

**MUAHAHAHA! *ahem* Hi guys! I apologize for the long delay. Feel free to punch, shoot, or make me into shoes...On second thought, maybe you should just contact Jim from IT...ANYWAY...This is set three years after the first two chapters (That makes the gang Year 10, in UK terms). ENJOY! **

* * *

><p>John Watson had turned fourteen over the summer. The party, if one could call it that, had not been successful. It was as if he had been waiting for this day to be in an especially bad mood. He had spent hours locked in his room, not speaking to anyone, shunning his entire family and biting their heads off if he was disturbed. Both parents knew the cause of the problem, but neither had dared to speak to him about it. Until, that is, when the family were sitting down to the immense birthday cake John's mother had prepared that morning.<p>

"Come on, John, eat up…." Mrs Watson chided gently. Her son said nothing, but stared down at the prongs of his fork with feigned interest. Without looking up, he murmured very softly "Sherlock hardly ate anything…"

Mr Watson put his fork down gently, before looking steadily at John.

"Son…Do you want to talk about this?"

John shook his head slowly, aware of the lump in his throat. "I'm going to bed….." he mumbled indistinctly. His parents exchanged worried looks at his son's recent laconic behaviour, but excused him without another word. John promptly stomped up to his room, slamming the door, and, in doing so, closing his whirring mind to the prying eyes of his family. Suddenly realizing that he was feeling horribly lethargic, he fell back onto the bed, still fully clothed. Gazing up at the shadow-strewn ceiling, he sank into an uncomfortable sleep, knowing the inevitable would appear before him the moment he was fully unconscious. The dream came, exactly on cue, just as it had for the past two years. Every time, he was standing on a poolside, watching on horror as a glittering knife sailed through the air, embedding itself in the shoulder of his best friend. He sank to the floor, dripping with blood, while a chuckle of twisted mirth cut through the air. Each night, John fought to intervene, but try as he might, he could not walk forward- it was as if he was entombed in a giant, invisible bubble. Then, the most terrible moment occurred. The moment where the dying boy gazed at John, a mixture of fear, apology and sorrow on his face. But despite this he was smiling, the most terrible, heart-wrenching smile. It was understated, but he could still see the passion shining through. John tried to call his name, but his throat constricted, and he found himself suddenly completely submerged in the water from the swimming pool. He was enveloped in a swirling Jetstream, dragged down below foaming waves, until it was no longer water he was drowning in, but impenetrable darkness. Then, a baritone voice, magically magnified, echoed through the shadow-filled realm.

"_John…..You could have saved me….You're just as bad as Moriarty…..You're not a hero, John…..You're just a murderer…" _

"_No….No I'm not!" _John protested, but, just as with every night, the words rang in his ears until he jerked awake, his eyes streaming with tears. His sobs must have been particularly loud that night, for at that moment, Harry crept in.

"John? What's wrong?" she was perturbed.

"I could have saved him…I'm just a murderer…" John mumbled, dissolving into fresh tears. Harry placed a consoling hand on her brother's shoulder, but John shrugged it away. "You've never killed anyone, have you Harry?" Taken aback by the sudden question, Harry shook her head. "I thought not...So, you don't know what it's like to have blood on your hands…"

"John, you're not making any sense…"

John looked up at her earnestly, and Harry could see how anxious he was to get her to believe him. "Harry….I killed him…...I killed my best friend….I killed Sherlock Holmes…."

The next morning, John's parents interrupted breakfast with unwelcome news. Mr Watson laid his mug on the table and cleared his throat loudly.

"Well, son….I contacted school several weeks ago, and I would have told you sooner. But, giving your recent…mentality…" he broke off.

"What're you trying to tell me, Dad?" John urged him onwards.

"Well….Your mother and I have decided to put you into boarding…" he paused, awaiting his son's reaction.

"Boarding? " John raised his eyebrows. "Why?"

"Well, we think it would be best, darling…" Mrs Watson continued gently. "If you got out of the house for a while…You know, get some fresh air, and relax a little…"

"What's the point….." John muttered dejectedly. "What's the point of going back when he's gone?"

"Dear…" his mother began carefully. "Don't you think…Maybe…You should just…let him go?" she finally enquired timidly.

John shook his head with annoyance "You think it's that simple…That I can just 'let him go', and everything will be fine? He was everything to me, and now….Now everything's gone."

"John, please…We're worried about you!"

"You needn't be. I'm doing fine…." He murmured, staring down at the tablecloth and suddenly realizing how stupidly bright everything around him was.

"Stop it, John…You are not fine. You don't need to be a martyr…You're being so secretive, I don't know what to believe anymore." Mrs Watson replied despairingly.

"If only you knew…he muttered softly, before rising from his seat and retreating to the infinitely quieter confines of his bedroom. He collapsed onto his bed and plugged himself into his iPod, playing the first song on his playlist:

_On my own  
>Pretending he's beside me<br>All alone, I walk with him till morning  
>Without him<br>I feel his arms around me  
>And when I lose my way I close my eyes<br>And he has found me_

"Sherlock…" John called his friend's name into the still air, even though he knew that there would be no reply. Fresh tears sparkled in his eyes as _his_ face swam into view.

_In the rain the pavement shines like silver  
>All the lights are misty in the river<br>In the darkness, the trees are full of starlight  
>And all I see is him and me for ever and forever<em>

_And I know it's only in my mind  
>That I'm talking to myself and not to him<br>And although I know that he is blind  
>Still I say, there's a way for us<em>

_I love him  
>But when the night is over<br>He is gone, the river's just a river  
>Without him the world around me changes<br>The trees are bare and everywhere  
>The streets are full of strangers<em>

"_How true…" _John thought with a pang of sadness. Without him, the world was dull and grey, and yet people just carried on with their stupid, boring lives as if nothing had changed. But everything had changed…John had changed….

_I love him  
>But every day I'm learning<br>All my life I've only been pretending  
>Without me his world will go on turning<br>A world that's full of happiness  
>That I have never known!<em>

Secretly, John wondered whether Sherlock had ever enjoyed his company, or whether he had just befriended him out of pity. But then he thought back to when Sherlock had kissed him….He had leaned in first, hadn't he? However….neither time had been _real:_ The first time, it was 'just an experiment', as Sherlock had put it. And the second time, Sherlock had been so drunk that John doubted he would remember it. Face glistening with tears; he choked out the final verse of the song:

_I love him  
>I love him<br>I love him  
>But only on my own.<em>

* * *

><p>September finally blew itself in with a flurry of howling wind and driving rain. John's parents had taken him shopping for school supplies a few days earlier, and now he sat in the back seat of the car, in his starched shirt, baggy trousers and uncomfortable shoes with a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach. His hands were clammy, and his tie felt like a noose around his neck. His dad's car trundled into the concrete car park, and John hauled his suitcase from the boot and marched off without a word. The wheels of the case scraped noisily against the path, and John came across several other boarders, one of whom was a girl he recognized as Molly Hooper. She gave him a half-hearted wave, which to he responded with a vague grunt. Suddenly, a powerful odour of chlorine caught his attention, and suddenly felt nauseous, but not because of the scent. He resolved never to go back inside the building again, if he could help it. He suddenly ground to a halt in front of the vast glass window, staring across the vista. There was no trace of blood. Nothing. Nothing to suggest the nightmare that had occurred two and a half years ago. Feeling a gentle hand on his shoulder, he turned to see Molly, her eyes sparkled with tears. She gave the smallest of nods, as if to say "<em>I miss him too…." <em>John gulped loudly, and then hurried away from the pool, walking into the entrance hall. All of the boarders had gathered, and were now in a disorderly queue, waiting to be assigned rooms. The process was dreadfully tedious, and by the time John reached the front of the line, several people behind him were yawning widely, as f they had just woken up. He walked timidly towards a smiling matron, who scanned the list for his name.

"Well, it says here you'll be staying in 221B, Baker Suite…How nice….." she smiled again.

Baker Suite…..John liked the sound of that. He dragged his suitcase onto the landing, and began the treacherous ascent up the seemingly endless flights of stairs. The staircases were completely identical, and more than once, John wondered if he was just going up the same one over and over again, but, at long last, he arrived, panting, in a hallway marked _"Baker Suite". _He heaved a sigh of relief, feeling sorry for people who had to climb even higher, then wandered down the hallway in search of 221B. There it was, right at the end of the hall. Just his luck. He hauled the case to a halt outside, and knocked loudly on the door. There did not seem to be anyone inside, and John had just turned around to leave, when the door clicked on the latch. John whirled round, and his expression turned from shock, to happiness, to outright fury in less than five seconds.

"YOU BLOODY GIT!" he bellowed, seizing a bemused Sherlock by the collar.

"I could say the same to you…" he replied coldly.

"DO YOU KNOW WHAT I'VE BEEN THROUGH?"

"I can imagine…and there's no need to shout, I can hear you perfectly…"

"You couldn't have sent me ONE text?"

"What would I have said? "Hi…..I'm not dead, by the way"?"

A smile played on John's lips, but he did not respond. He suddenly took in the thrilling realness of the situation. Sherlock was really here, standing in front of him with a characteristic scowl: He was very much alive.

"You are a complete bastard, Sherlock…a complete and utter bastard!"

"I suppose I should take that as a compliment…"

John snorted...then chuckled…..Then shook with hysterical laughter. What the hell was happening to him? His emotions were all over the place, fluctuating between the urge to laugh and cry. Presently, he let go of his friend's neck, and flung his arms around Sherlock's waist in bone-crushing hug, reassured by his solidness

"Come on, John…There's no need for that…" Sherlock squirmed out of the suffocating embrace. "Well? Are you coming inside or not?"

John beamed, and then followed him into the room. It was rather small, and furnished similar to a modern flat: a faux leather sofa, mismatched armchairs, a coffee table, the last of which looked as if it had borne the brunt of many experiments already. Slightly detracting from the casual elegance was a large smiley face, spray-painted in yellow, just beside the mantelpiece, upon which, to John's amusement, resided the skull that a certain someone had pilfered from the biology lab. "Plan on giving it back?"

"Nah…At least not until get a real one…" he replied lazily, flinging himself on the sofa with a dull thud.

"And what's with the smiley?"

"I was bored…..he said vaguely. "You'd be surprised how little activity in a school full of pubescent brats…."

"And by "little activity", I assume you mean…"

"Murder, Suicide...Abduction….Drug Trafficking…Fun stuff like that." He finished, ticking them off on his long fingers. John was shocked at how casually Sherlock could talk about all of this stuff.

"So…Do we have any neighbors?"

"Nope….Just us on this floor...No stupid wankers raving at midnight…It happens…" he added, seeing John's horrified expression.

"Sherlock! I hope I didn't just hear that!" a quavering voice called from the hallway.

"Well, you did, Mrs. H…Sorry!" he shouted back, just as the owner of the voice pushed the door open: a woman in her late fifties, brandishing a duster.

"John, this is Mrs. Hudson. She's our housekeeper…"

" I wish you wouldn't call me that, dear…" she tutted. "Pleased to meet you, John. I'm the _caretaker _for Baker Suite." She glanced sharply at Sherlock

"Well, since there aren't any other people living up here, that technically makes you _our_ housekeeper…" he grinned broadly

"Oh, stop it, cheeky boy!" Mrs Hudson replied in mock annoyance, giving Sherlock a friendly wallop around the head with her duster, and proceeding to wander around the room, shifting unlabeled jars aside to wipe down the coffee table.

"Stop! That's an experiment! Stop!" he yelled, leaping towards the table and snatching what looked like a pig's liver suspended in alcohol and clutched it to his chest protectively. Mrs Hudson sighed loudly, and headed towards the door, muttering "…point of coming if…..won't let me?" She shut the door behind her. As soon as she was gone, Sherlock carefully replaced the jar on the table , then resumed his position on the sofa, as if nothing had happened . The two boys sat there for a couple of moments.

"So….D'you wanna watch something? I've got the Doctor Who box set…" John suggested, breaking the silence.

Sherlock made a noise halfway between a grunt and sniff, which John presumed meant yes. The latter grabbed his bag, and then pulled out a massive box, full of DVDs. He pulled out the first one, and shoved it into the player on top of the TV. John saw Sherlock raise his eyebrows in apparent interest as the titles started, and it suddenly occurred to him that his friend probably hadn't actually watched an episode of Doctor Who before.

John yawned loudly, glancing at the clock on the wall. Nine thirty. The telly had been long since been turned off : Barely ten minutes into the third episode , Sherlock had complained loudly at how terribly slow the Doctor was, and why didn't he just shoot them all to save time and effort? No matter how much John had pleaded for his friend to give the show a chance, Sherlock had finally snapped, screaming at the Daleks to exterminate him before he had to watch another episode. Presently, he was scribbling fiercely on a piece of paper.

"What're you doing?"

"Writing an angry letter to Mycroft…" he scowled at his brother's name, but did not look up.

John heaved an amused sigh. "What's he done now?"

"Forcing me to get a roommate….Well now I can tell him I've got one!" he smiled vaguely, before holding up his letter "What do you think?"

John grinned as he read the letter: He was not sure it was fit for publication, but it was sure to get a few laughs out of Mycroft's workmates.

"I've never seen so many expletives in one sentence…" he commented honestly. "But otherwise, It's good…." Sherlock promptly slid the message into an envelope. "Just going down to post this," he called over his shoulder. "You should get to bed."

"I'm not tired…" John protested, but even as he said this, he stifled a huge yawn. Sherlock cocked his head to one side "Really?" he snorted "Bed!"

"Who are you, my mother?" John yelled "and why aren't _you_ going to bed?"

"Sleeping's boring…he replied, waving away John's suggestion airily.

"Hah!" John scowled "I'm Sherlock Holmes, and I'm an arrogant dickhead who considers myself too ostentatious for such a trivial, human process." He swaggered around the room, imitating Sherlock's baritone voice.

"Stop it, John!" he growled.

"I don't give a damn about anyone's feelings, and I just insult people, even if they try to be nice…"

"Shut up!"

"I abandon my friends for months, and then I spend the whole day complaining, then I lecture them on bedtimes, while I lounge about on the sofa."

"SHUT UP!" Sherlock suddenly screamed, seizing what was apparently a sheep's heart and flinging it in John's direction. The two of them stared at each other, before Sherlock stormed from the room, slamming the door behind him. John could hear his ear-splitting footsteps all the way downstairs. Since there was little else to do, he decided to go to bed after all, and proceeded to wander into the bedroom. It was small, and rather warm, and there was something about the atmosphere that instantly left him in a sluggish state. He fell onto the soft mattress, and was instantly asleep.

To John's surprise, it was still dark when he woke, and although he did not feel tired any more, something told him that had only slept for about two hours. Glancing around, he saw that someone had left a cup of tea on the sideboard._ That was out of character_…Although, it was sweet of him to go through the trouble of making it while John was asleep/. He grabbed the mug and wandered into the living room, where all sources of light had been extinguished, leaving pitch darkness in their wake. A dark figure on the sofa shifted slightly.

"Sherlock, what the hell are you doing?"

"Isn't it obvious? I'm seeing whether it is possible to retain the senses while sleeping…"

"Have you had any sleep at all?"

"No…"

"See? Your hypothesis doesn't make sense, and therefore, you are unlikely to come to a valid conclusion…Can we put some lights on, please? I don't like not being able to see you." When Sherlock did not reply, John got up and walked towards where he thought the light switch might be, his arms stretched in front of him like a zombie. A short way across the room, his bare foot encountered a slimy, rubbery object. _That better not be any animal guts._ Gingerly, he stepped over the unknown entity and continued of his crusade for light. Moments later, he bashed into a wall.

"To the left a bit…" Sherlock encouraged from his position on the sofa. John was amazed that his friend could see so well in the dark, and this cemented his belief that Sherlock was probably part cat. His hand clutched thin air for a moment, then, at long last, he jabbed his finger into the switch: Brilliant shafts of hard light sliced across the room, revealing Sherlock to be hunched on the sofa staring into space with bloodshot eyes.

"No offense mate, but you look terrible…."

"So do you." He countered. John ran an absent hand through his sleep-tousled hair in an attempt to smooth it down. "Don't…" Sherlock muttered "I like it like that…."

"Uh…Thanks…."

"Come here a moment, John." He gestured to a space beside him. John obliged, sitting down heavily. "I missed you so much..." he admitted.

"What've you been doing for all this time, then?"

"That doesn't matter…" Sherlock purred softly. "I'm here now, and that's all that counts…" he seemingly unconsciously slipped his fingers into John's palm

"Yeah…." John murmured. Was it just him, or was it getting hot in here? He shot Sherlock a sidelong glance, brown eyes meeting grey…Suddenly; he could stand it no longer: He leaned across the sofa, hooking his left arm around Sherlock's waist. His eyes betrayed the briefest flicker of confusion before he realized what John was doing. Suddenly, John found himself kneeling on Sherlock's lap, their lips pressed gently together. There was a sudden electrifying moment where their tongues met, each gently caressing the other: God was it amazing! The two of them fell against the arm of the settee, still clasped together. Sherlock's arms were draped around John's neck, but as John fingered the buttons of his shirt, he slapped his hand away, acknowledging the gesture with a shake of his head. Instead, John gently prised his lips away and rested his head against Sherlock's chest, a contented sigh escaping his ribcage. Sherlock ran his fingers lightly through John's rumpled hair, his eyes half closed. He watched John's chest rise and fall, the motion strangely soothing. It was a few silent moments before he realized John had fallen asleep on top of him. Sherlock tried to shift out of this awkward position, but he soon realized that he was well and truly stuck. Now there was nothing else to do except go to sleep…_Boring_

_Mrs Hudson found them that morning, snuggled together on the sofa. John's face split into a shy smile as he slept. It was hard to believe, but Sherlock was actually asleep, his mouth slightly open, blissfully unaware of their housekeeper giggling gleefully to herself._

John's eyelids flickered open in the pearly morning light. He inhaled deeply: Sherlock's intoxicating scent still clung to the pillows: jasmine, cinnamon…and something else that he couldn't quite describe…He let the aroma seep into his brain, clogging every neuron and synapse, and all the other squiggly bits that he couldn't remember the name of…It was so peaceful and tranquil, and-

SCREEEEEEEEEEECH!

He leapt off the sofa as if he had been electrocuted, wondering if someone was being tortured. Sherlock looked up from his violin, which John suddenly realized, was the source of the dirge.

"What the HELL was that?"

"Ballet of the Unhatched Chicks…" He muttered, playing another screaming chord. "God, I hate Mussorgsky… "Another vile arpeggio split the air, and Sherlock winced. In all honesty, the piece sounded worse than fingers being dragged across a chalkboard.

"Why are you practicing at this time?"

"Well, since there was no time to practice last night…" he trailed off, blushing a little, but then resumed playing the foul melody. He flinched with every note, as if they were doing him physical harm. He had got halfway through a particularly vulgar bar, when he suddenly flung the violin down, casting a filthy look at the sheet music. "I simply can't put up with this musical torture anymore." He wandered over to the sofa and sat down beside John, who smiled shyly.

"Aren't we getting our timetables this morning?"

"Don't remind me….I can't believe they only give us ten minutes' notice before lessons actually start." As if his complaint had summoned them, two envelopes slid under the door. It was at that moment that John noticed a plate of toast and jam on the coffee table. What had happened to Sherlock all of a sudden? He was being so…_considerate_. He picked up a piece and bit through the gooey conserve to the crisp bread beneath. _Strawberry…his favorite_… Presently one of the envelopes dropped into John's lap. He tore at open, and quickly scanned it, spraying crumbs everywhere when he saw that day's line-up: PSE(obvious euphemism for "Let's talk about sex!"), double English (Taught by, perhaps, the most boring person on the planet: Mrs Bentley), double Physics (He looked forward to the imminent shouting match between Sherlock and Mr Jeeve), and finally Games all afternoon (Somehow, he could not envision Sherlock as a star rugby player.). Sherlock himself had planted his face in his hands, and was now swearing under his breath.

"C'mon, mate, it'll be fun…." But even as he said it, Sherlock snorted. John knew it'd be useless to try and change his mind. "Come on, let's go." He seized Sherlock's wrist and literally dragged him from the room, protesting all the way to the infirmary. In the absence of a teacher, the already assembled students descended into a chaotic discord, seemingly unaware of the two of them.

"So much for a dramatic entrance…." Sherlock murmured quietly. As soon as he had spoken, the entire class turned to look at them, and John was shoved aside as numerous girls, whom Sherlock had never seen in his whole life, came charging towards them, knocking him to the floor like a tidal wave, and screeching in a manner not dissimilar to pack of starved baboons. Whilst Sherlock was incapacitated by teenagers, John found a seat next to Greg Lestrade, who muttered a hasty greeting before the teacher, Mr. McCloud strolled in. "Good to see you're not dead yet, Mr. Holmes." He remarked, seeing the brawl that was currently taking place on the floor. Several girls let out shocked gasps at the sudden appearance of a teacher. "Likewise, Mr. McCloud…" he replied, re-fastening the buttons on his shirt. He stood up and sauntered to the seat on the seat beside John in his usual intimidating manner, casting a defiant glance at the offending bitches who had almost raped him on the infirmary floor.

"Now, guys…" Mr. McCloud called, once he was quite sure he'd got the class's attention. "Today, we're going to talk about….

"Sex!" a willowy brunette shrieked from the back of the class, prompting several other girls to titter nervously "You're not far off, Miss Adler!" Mr. McCloud chuckled. Sherlock turned to look at the Adler girl, who licked her lips in a rather seductive way. But, try as he might, he could not deduce anything about her…and that was frightening. John looked at him expectantly, and Sherlock responded with a tiny shake of his head, before tearing his attention away from John's worried gaze, and focusing on the lesson: Mr. McCloud must have got a correct answer out of somebody , for he was now writing 'SEXUALITY' on the board. "This is going to be awkward..." he muttered out of the corner of his mouth. "_No shit, Sherlock!" _John hissed back. PSE lessons were always awkward: everyone knew the answers, but they were too apprehensive to speak up. "Now, who can give us a definition of 'sexuality'?" Mr McCloud looked around the room hopefully, but not one of his pupils was bold enough to divulge in such a touchy topic. Finally, after roughly a minute of silence, a shy redhead by the name of Molly Hooper put up her hand. "Isn't it…the way a person is like…attracted to other people?" she finished uncertainly. Sherlock was unimpressed by the poor sentence structure of the answer, so he decided to improve on Molly's response. "Human sexuality is the capacity to have erotic experiences and responses. Sexuality can also refer to the way someone is sexually attracted to another person, whether it is to the opposite sex which is heterosexuality, to the same sex, homosexuality, to either sex , bisexuality, to all gender identities, called pansexuality , or not being attracted to anyone in a sexual manner, or asexuality. …" he replied, in one breath. He noticed Molly give him a wounded look as he finished, and wondered what on earth he had done wrong.

"Yes, Yes…." Mr. McCloud was flustered. "Now, I'm not going to ask you to declare your orientation to the whole class (_"Liar…"_). I honestly couldn't care less if you're gay…" At this final sentence, the entire class turned to stare pointedly at Sherlock and John, and Sherlock could tell that they still believed the stupid rumors that had floated around since Year Seven. John saw a muscle in his friend's jaw clench, grasping Sherlock's shoulder in an attempt to restrain him from exposing the barrage of harsh, uncalled for, albeit entirely true details of the private lives of their classmates. Sherlock brushed his John's hand away, rising to his feet.

"What idiots you all are…filling your tiny brains with malicious anecdotes. It amazes me that you are even capable of independent thought, with minds occupied with crap like that..." Anderson yawned widely, and John realized that he had just pinned up his death warrant: If there was one thing he'd learnt over the past few years, it was 'never interrupt Sherlock while he's ranting'. Now that this line had been toed, Sherlock's reaction was spectacular: He leapt over towards Anderson's desk in a single fluid motion, and clutched the greasy git's collar. A look of horror passed over his trollish face "_Three…Two…One…"_

"You're worst of all, Anderson…What's your IQ, -30? Donovan, I thought you liked your men intelligent…Don't look at me like that, it's written all over your face…. Look!" he exclaimed, wrenching Donovan's face towards Greg and John. "See! Several strands of hair are loose, which suggests she's been repositioning her fringe a lot…It's a tactic employed by girls when they want guys to notice them….Now, see here…tips of her eyelashes are very slightly damp, meaning she's been blinking a lot, another flirting technique…Observe her lipstick...blood-red, saying 'I'm in a seductive mood.'…It's smeared; she's been kissing recently, and, the fact that you keep glancing at Anderson is a dead giveaway…"

"Oi! Freak! Get your hands off her!" Anderson suddenly plucked up the courage to aim a punch at Sherlock's face. Sherlock seized his wrist just as it was inches from his own nose. "Your pulse has risen…Now; this cannot be the result of dealing a punch…".here, he demonstrated by landing a hard blow to Anderson's forehead. "It was a reflex reaction, and therefore happened to quickly for the body to adjust. However, judging by your current pulse, I can gather that it has experienced a gradual increase over the past half hour. Roughly half an hour ago, you sat down next to Donovan, and it has been proven that when you are in close proximity to someone you are attracted to, your pulse will gradually rise…" And, with that, he stalked back to his chair without another word. The class all wore identical gaping expressions, but Sherlock tactically diverted their attentions elsewhere with a hasty two-fingered gesture.

"Right!" Mr McCloud shouted, making them all jump. "Now we've got that sorted out, let's move on…"

The rest of the lesson proved uneventful. No one else dared to interrupt Sherlock when he was speaking, yet he still managed to call them all idiots at least twice. "I am this close…THIS CLOSE…to murdering the whole lot of them!" he roared to a patient John, the minute they were dismissed.

"Oh, look someone else for you to murder…" John passed him their timetable with a rueful smile.

"Mrs. Bentley….." he murmured. "Shit…."

That was the only word one could use to describe Mrs. Bentley: She was one of those people who could make the Second World War sound like the most boring event in history; her drill-like voice could lull even Sherlock to sleep. Her entire set were envious of Mrs Davis' class, who seemed to spend their lessons dong oral presentations, or watching Romeo and Juliet a million times over. Yet, there was a plus side to her mind-numbing nature, as she could go on droning for so long that she didn't notice the blatant note-passing that occurred right under her roman nose. Sherlock found himself showered with the usual sprinkling of paper. Most of them appeared to be enquiries into his sexuality, which he hastily threw them back to the senders. One note, however, caught his attention.

_Oh, You think that you know me, know me,_

_That's why I'm leaving you lonely, lonely_

_Cause baby you don't know a thing about me_

_You don't know a thing about me_

John was presently being bored into a stupor by Mrs. Bentley's drilltones. He vaguely remembered that they were studying To Kill A Mockingbird, but he was paying less and less attention as the chapter progressed. A look around the room told a similar story: Donovan was glancing at Anderson, Anderson was glaring at Lestrade, Lestrade was frowning at Irene Adler, and Irene was giving Sherlock a suggestive wink. Suddenly, John felt a jabbing finger to his shoulder.

"What?" he turned to face Sherlock, a little annoyed.

"Can you make sense of this?" he thrust the note into John's face.

John read it, grinning "That's appropriate…" Then seeing Sherlock's bemused expression, he chuckled "They're lyrics. Mr. Know it all? Kelly Clarkson? No?" Sherlock shook his head "Honestly, mate…I don't know how you survive without any knowledge of pop culture…" Sherlock sad nothing, for he was already scribbling a reply.

_Not interested –SH_

He folded up the piece of paper and tossed it across the room. Adler's desk was a good few meters away from his own, and Mrs. Bentley chose that exact moment to clomp right into the path of the flying scrap. It hit her square in her ugly face, and she grasped it with surprising aggression for a woman so monotonous. Sherlock swore again, a common occurrence, it seemed, in English lessons.

"I think it would be prudent not to express your dislike of my subject Mr. Homes." Mrs. Bentley buzzed. "I seem to remember that I have a degree in teaching, unlike you." Sherlock could tell she was getting angry, for her voice accelerated, even though she retained that ridiculous gummed up expression.

"Oh, I think you misunderstand, Mrs. Bentley. I was not directing the comment at the subject in general, merely the teach-." At that moment, John clamped his hand to his friend's mouth, knowing all too well what would happen if Sherlock carried on talking. The room was silent for a moment, and John could have sworn he saw small nods of agreement with Sherlock's unfinished statement.

"Right…." The drill started up again, giving many the cue to resume napping. "Who can tell me…." The question was completely lost in the haze of drowsiness that hung about the room. He felt a weight on his shoulder. Sherlock had actually fallen asleep in the space of a minute, his head resting lightly (and awkwardly) against John

"Mr. Holmes, What's the answer?" The Drill raised her voice. Sherlock jerked awake at the sound of his name, and seeing his current position, shifted his chair sideways a little, as to not draw attention to the fact that he'd been so comfortable on his makeshift pillow. He pondered for a moment, devising a suitable response, and then supplied "Atticus?" However, Drill Voice seemed satisfied with the spontaneous reply. "Hmmm…Yes. And what do you think the symbolism suggests….." Again, the query went over the class's heads. John saw Sherlock with a book in his hands, but experience told him that his friend was not reading the required novel. A glance at the pages ascertained his deduction:

_A strangled cry from the bed startled me. A fresh access of pain seized the unfortunate old lady. The convulsions were of a violence terrible to behold…_

"Poirot…." Sherlock hissed under his breath. "Much more to my taste than the screeching brats in To Kill A Mockingbird…" To this, John snickered. He could see where he was coming from: Scout and Jem Finch were rather irritating after you read about them for too long. He shot another glance around the room, and was not surprised to see Lestrade gazing at the clock, as if he could make it go faster with sheer willpower.

John snapped out of his lethargy the moment the metallic clang of the bell pierced through Mrs. Bentley's lecture. The overall fogginess stayed with the class until they were well out of sight of the English room.

"Tell you something John," Sherlock fell into step beside his friend "I am…"

"Bored?" John guessed "That's not exactly unexpected, seeing as we've just had an English lesson..."

"You know me so well!" He gave a genuine smile. John responded by flashing his own grin. This happiness would quickly be doused the minute they arrived in the Physics lab. The imposing figure of Mr Jeeve prowled up to the desk at the front of the room, surveying the class with his dark gaze. His lip curled in dislike when he realized Sherlock was very much alive.

"Mr Holmes…our new…_Celebrity…" _Loathing was etched across his face when he uttered this last word.

"Celebrity? Oh, no sir. Just a consulting detective…"

"A _What?_" John hissed.

"Use your head, John. People come give me cases, and I solve them….If they're interesting enough."

"I'm watching you, boy…." Mr Jeeve growled.

"Same here, sir." John looked for the humour in his friend's eyes, but found none: Sherlock was deadly serious.

"Right, you dunderheads. Today we'll be exploring….." John thought he heard Sherlock mutter _Please, not the Solar System. _

"The Solar System..." the teacher finished. Sherlock glared at him, as if the topic of the lesson had been chosen just to spite him. Scowling, he took out the novel he'd been reading in English and continued from where he'd left off

"Sherlock, we need to work!" John hissed in protest.

"Physics is of no importance to me. Who cares that the Sun goes round the Earth, or that Mercury is covered in ice. That knowledge is not going to influence life in general…"

"But….it's the SOLAR SYSTEM, for God's sake! It's just common knowledge!"

"Exactly, John. _Common_ knowledge. Common translates as dull, and dull translates as Mycroft…"

"You," John sighed with exasperation "are just impossible."

"Thank you." He smiled vaguely, and returned to his book. Once he'd reached about halfway through the novella, he began to realize how dull Hercule Poirot was. Any action in the book thus far had been short lived: No high-speed chases, no arch rival to keep him from becoming too successful….Just an idiotic Belgian man with a stupid moustache.

At long last, Mr Jeeve finally dismissed them, and the class made their way to lunch, Sherlock easily parting the crowd with his intimidating swagger, so all John had to do was stay close behind him. Heads turned like in some cheesy movie, sighing emphatically as the tall, dark figure strolled through the dining hall. Not in the mood to be mobbed by screaming fans again, Sherlock turned around abruptly, bumping into John in the process, and headed straight out of the refectory from where he'd entered. The moment they'd left the room, Sherlock pulled out his phone, and reluctantly began to text his brother.

_Canteen's full of my fan club…As much as it pains me to say this….I need your help -SH_

Moments later, a reply buzzed through

_Lucky I'm in the area. Car's outside –MH_

Come on, John." He beckoned, stowing his phone in his coat pocket. "We've got lunch with the British Government…" John wondered why his friend seemed so irritable about this.

He didn't have to wait long to find out: Apparently, the 'British Government' was a euphemism for 'Mycroft and a random PA woman'

"I'm doing this solely for John's benefit…" Sherlock hissed to his brother as they climbed into the black Porsche that was waiting outside the gates. John shot a sidelong glance at the woman in the seat on his right. The screen of her spotless Blackberry reflected in her eyes.

"Anthea." She supplied, without taking her eyes from the screen. "Personal assistant to Mr Holmes."

The mounting awkwardness in the back was nothing compared to the tension brewing like a thunderstorm in the front. The two brothers retained their stoic silence, neither looking at each other for more than a passive moment. Sherlock was glaring out the window in a manner similar to a scolded child, and Mycroft was doing nothing to resolve it, instead focusing his entire being on driving in a straight line. This careful composure was entirely thrown when the younger Holmes suddenly yelled "SQUIRREL!" Mycroft swerved sharply, flinging the car's occupants to the left. Anthea registered shock for less than a moment, and then resumed texting. "Where?" John cried.

"Look! The decomposing corpse at the side of the road! " Sherlock was positively beaming with excitement. Somehow, John knew what was going to happen next. Mycroft obviously knew too, for he growled "Oh no, you…." , reaching over to grasp his brother by the collar. Sherlock twisted out of Mycroft's grip, and before anyone could stop him, he was charging across the street to claim this gristly trophy. Mycroft exhaled loudly, but was otherwise silent. John could hear the irritating clicking as Anthea wrote yet another text. Glancing out of the window, he could see Sherlock returning, his coat tails flapping behind him. In his hands, he cradled a limp corpse. The foul odour of rotting flesh entered the car with him; Mycroft wrinkled his nose and wound down the windows without another word.

"Myc….I need a pee!" Sherlock was delighted to see a muscle in his brother's jaw clench. He turned to look at John, who frowned in confusion. Sherlock mouthed "_Just play along…_"

"Oh…Um…So do I…"

Mycroft scowled, and pulled over, and yet again Sherlock leapt from the car, making sure to tread mud all over the seat. John followed more slowly, prompting Sherlock to drag him from the car. He began to walk in the opposite direction from the Porsche.

"Wait! Where are we going?"

"Back to school…John the only reason he came to collect us was to obtain blackmailing information…he doesn't care that much."

"But…What're we going to do? I'm starving, and I reckon they've stopped serving lunch now."

In reply, Sherlock produced an enormous chocolate cake from his pocket. "Found it in the glove compartment…You'd think he'd be more imaginative." John took the cake appreciatively and promptly started tucking in as they walked back towards the school gates. They had reached the main hall of the building when Sherlock whispered. "I've also nicked that bloody umbrella, in case of screaming admirers…" John giggled, spraying crumbs everywhere. The journey back to Baker Suite was a weird one, with Sherlock ducking behind topiaries every time a girl walked past. Three times, John had to scout ahead to verify that the corridors were all clear before his friend kamikaze rolled from the doorways. "Honestly, you'd think this was a top-secret stealth operation!" John laughed, once they had finally reached 221B.

"With my fan club, it is…" Sherlock heaved a huge sigh and flung himself on the sofa, steepling his fingers against his chest in his classic 'thinking' position. Feeling rather useless, John got up to make two cups of tea, just in case Sherlock felt the unlikely desire to drink something while he was lost in thought.

Not for the first time, the bell pierced through the awkward silence brewing in 221B. Glancing over his shoulder, he saw Sherlock rise from the sofa in an over-exaggerated sluggish manner. "Come on! It's only rugby!" John was actually looking forward to getting back onto the field, but he knew Sherlock was just not built for contact sports: He had the hands of a composer, not an athlete, and his lanky physique would crumple under the impact of tackling. Once again, John dragged his protesting friend out of the room, this time to the changing rooms. Sherlock scowled at all the thuggish idiots that seemed to populate the sports complex on a permanent basis. Once he was finally changed, he stomped out to meet John, whose complexion was not flattered by the foul, mustard-yellow rugby shirt that was compulsory for all boys their age.

"I look like an idiot…" Sherlock stated flatly, the ugly shirt giving a sickly tinge to his already pale skin.

"You look like Anderson." John replied, nodding in the direction of the boy in question, who looked by far the ugliest.

"Your point?" he raised his eyebrows in a peculiar manner, sending John into gales of laughter, that only stopped when Mr Jackson, their games teacher, came jogging out to join the assembled boys. Mr Jackson was one of those fitness freaks, who was never seen wearing anything other than a tracksuit. Although Sherlock scorned his unconventional dress sense, Mr Jackson was one of the only teachers the boy showed any respect.

"Hello, boys! Today, as you may have guessed, we're doing rugby…Now, before you all start clamouring to be captains, _I _will choose the teams today." This was met by groans of protest from Anderson, along with several other goons.

"Right…Lestrade! Anderson! You'll be captains..." The two chosen boys stepped up to the front, Lestrade looked pleasantly surprised to be chosen, while Anderson wore a satisfied smirk. Mr Jackson then proceeded to divide the class up, John teaming up with Lestrade, while Sherlock reluctantly joined Anderson, and several other idiots of the same mindset. Anderson then proceeded to order his cronies about, though Sherlock stopped listening the moment the brute opened his mouth. He stormed over to an empty space, a short distance away from the main focus of the game, a perfect spot to analyse the players.

Almost as soon as the game began, Sherlock noticed the running styles of various people differed greatly. For example, Anderson constantly sprinted in long cocky strides, and it was obvious that he was desperate to impress his classmates just as much as the teacher. Lestrade, on the other hand, stayed in the middle of the pack, with a consistent pace, not pressured to prove himself. A sign of a liked and respected person. John had not moved much from his position yet, and Sherlock could tell he was getting impatient. The game flashed by, and it was suddenly apparent what was happening: _Oh, God….Anderson had the ball…And he was heading straight for John!_

The sharp screeching sound of a whistle instantly roused John, and he vaguely wondered what had happened to cause the disturbance. He was not entirely surprised to see, glancing around, a scuffle between Sherlock and Anderson, the former of whom appeared to have flung himself on top of the larger boy in the weirdest tackle that John had ever seen. "I'm on your team, idiot!" Anderson roared, heaving himself up.

"There are several errors with that statement." Sherlock replied coolly "Firstly, even if I must play alongside you in this ridiculous sport, I will not consider you a teammate. We are simply too different…Secondly, you are perhaps, the world's biggest hypocrite, seeing as your own intelligence is outstripped by that of a jellyfish. So I would thank you not to talk about matters that are incomprehensible to someone of your calibre." He promptly strode back to his place on the field, and within moments, the game resumed, as if the past few moments had never occurred. John silently puzzled over his friend's motives for this confrontation: Sure, Anderson had headed towards him in a rather berserk manner, but wasn't that the point of rugby? Then again, Sherlock had developed a certain disregard for social rules, and something as trivial as basic ruby rules may have just slipped through the voluminous net that was his brilliant mind. Mentally kicking himself, he let his concern for Sherlock drift by, and resumed focus on the match: Rugby was the one thing he was good at, and he was determined to beat his friend at something. The ball flew in his direction, unguarded by opponents. _Finally. _He made to clutch the ball, but was pinned to the ground as a strikingly familiar dark-haired figure hurled himself onto his chest. _That delicious smell, those stormy eyes, that- No! Stop it!_

"Sherlock, I haven't even got the ball!" he couldn't help sighing irritably. Those eyes looked down at him in_ adorable_ confusion_. "_But…You're not on my team!"

"You're only supposed to tackle people on the opposing team when they've got the ball! What have you achieved by attacking me?"

"Well, I've stopped you doing something stupid…Anderson was clearly going to go after that ball, and his thugs were all there for backup. You would have been hopelessly outnumbered. Anderson means business, John, and I couldn't bear to see you injured…" the last sentence was murmured so that only John could hear. "You…You were trying to protect me?"

"Of course! Why do you think I opted to partake in this ridiculous sport?"

"Well…thanks, I suppose…" John glanced around the pitch, and suddenly realized what this'd look like to an outsider. "Get off."

"Why? I've tackled you."

"Yeah, but people'll think we're..."

"Hm? Wh-Oh…Oh, right…" he mumbled awkwardly, flushing a little as he stood.

The game flashed by over the next few minutes, and before John knew it, they were all traipsing in, twenty-nine of them covered in mud (Sherlock had miraculously avoided any particularly filthy patches). John engaged in a scalding shower that left him in a drowsy mood, and it took him rather a long time to change back into his uniform. Suddenly, excited feminine squeals echoed around the sports complex.

"I just saw Sherlock Holmes-with nothing on!" The distinct voce of Irene Adler shrieked, sending several others into spontaneous fits of giggles.

_Oh, Crap. _What the hell did he think he was doing?

John leapt from the bench where he'd been changing and burst out of the door. "What the-" Sherlock looked at him irritably: Admittedly, Irene may have been exaggerating a little when she said he had nothing on, for he was wearing a towel…but apart from that, he appeared to be completely bare.

"Finally! You've taken for too long…." He appeared to be oblivious to the numerous students that were blatantly gawping at him. John faltered for a moment, gazing enraptured at his naked torso…_Wait! Damn you, Sherlock! Being so…..attractive!_ John started, as an ugly gash in his friend's shoulder leapt out at him.

"Oh my God...Is that-?" he trailed off, unsure how to finish his question. Sherlock nodded, showing he understood John's lame query._ That's from the knife._ Before he could stop himself, John was running a finger down the ragged scar that extended from Sherlock's left clavicle to just under the armpit. It was a hideous thing, marring the otherwise perfect skin…_Why am I acting like Bella from Twilight…Wait, why do I even know her name?_ Thanking God that Sherlock couldn't hear him making a mental fool of himself, John stepped back. "What're we going to do now?"

"Biology, of course!" he flashed a small smile. _Oh, God…Did he mean- _"Yes, I've been meaning to start some experiments regarding the anatomy of frogs….What?" he added, hearing John's huge sigh of relief. "Uh…Y-yes, of course…" he stammered, turning crimson. "Well, come on then!" he wrapped his fingers around John's wrist, sending the latter's heart into a frenzy, and dragged him out of the room, still unclothed.

* * *

><p><em>I glanced up as the door opened, and almost sliced my finger off with the scalpel I was holding when I saw him walking in. His hair was damp from the showers, and a fluffy towel was draped around his waist. In my opinion, he looked like something from Greek mythology. He grunted vaguely in my direction, his usual greeting.<em>

"_Hi…" a boy I recognised as John Watson seemed a lot friendier. The two boys could not have been more different; How on earth had they managed to make friends…Or was it than that? I'd heard the rumours, although, most of them had been spread by Martina Summerby, the girl who he'd famously rejected back in Year Seven. Presently, he sauntered towards me, clutching a frog between his long, pale fingers. He laid it down with a splat onto the bench, glaring at the dejected amphibian as if it'd offended him._

"_John…." The way he said the other boy's name; softly, but with a dominating edge. It was obvious that he could make John do whatever he wanted; I expect he'd dance naked in front of Mrs Bentley if he was asked to…God, that's a weird mental image! "Step outside for a moment, something tells me the girls'll be lurking nearby…" "Oh, er…okay then…" John mumbled, exiting the lab and proceeding to take a position outside the door, presumably keeping watch for Irene Adler and her gang. Now it was just me and him, alone in the lab, and the air was suddenly thick and tense. He did not speak to me at all, not even to tell me that I'd eaten oatmeal for my breakfast today, or that Greg Lestrade had asked me out at lunch. As he dissected the frog, I noticed that he seemed unusually preoccupied, forever glancing over his shoulder, towards the window, where John could be seen pacing around outside. I heard a sharp intake of breath and muttered swearing. Glancing round, I saw a cut on his knuckle, dribbling blood down his finger._

"_Are you okay?" I enquired timidly. He looked around the room for a moment, as though wondering who had spoken, and then his vehement gaze rested on me. "Fine…" he answered in monotone, although the blood was still trickling. "No you're not! I'll take a look at it…" I took his hand in mine, but he dragged his away. "Honestly, I'm fine…." I could see he wasn't going to cooperate willingly, so I grabbed his wrist and pulled him over to the sink. It felt good to be in control for once, nothing like the shy wreck that I usually am around him. I held his finger under the tap until the red-stained water vanished down the plughole. "Thank you…" he mumbled, then looked up at me "Thank you." He repeated, a little louder. I was stunned at the sudden politeness; usually, he did not care who he insulted. I looked up at him, at his mercurial eyes, his angular nose….and those exquisite cheekbones. He spoke again, the deep chords of his baritone voice reverberating around my skull. "Have you ever…kissed anyone?" I shook my head, too dazed to speak, and I felt myself blushing scarlet. "Now…I want you to remember this…Just concentrate…" And he suddenly lunged forward, brushing his lips against mine, so gently that I wasn't even sure they were there. All too soon, it was over, and he stepped back. "You count, Molly Hooper. Don't forget that…" Then, he suddenly flinched away, as though horrified by what he'd done._

* * *

><p>At that moment, John burst through the door, panting. His hair was tousled, and his shirt sported several tears. "The girls…they ambushed me!" Sherlock didn't respond, but shot panicked glances between his two companions. Suddenly, the door rattled loudly, and an unknown girl yelled "Come outside and play, boys!"<p>

"Why does this remind me of the zombie apocalypse…" John wondered aloud. Molly gave him a weak smile, but a loud bang on the other side made the three of them leap about three feet in the air. It sounded as if someone was trying to kick down the door, and since Sherlock appeared to have lost the ability to move, John leapt into action, wedging himself against the door to brace it. It held out for a few more moments, before sheer force burst it open, and a tidal wave of girls tumbled in, shrieking their heads off.

"I love you, Sherlock!"

"Marry me, Sherlock!"

"Come here, honey!"

Suddenly, a deafening bellow silenced them all. "Out! Everybody out! I need to go to my Mind Palace…"

Several people exchanged confused looks, and John voiced their mystification "Mind _what?_"

"OUT!" he roared, brandishing a blood-stained scalpel at them. He appeared quite demented, and John couldn't blame several girls for running screeching from the room. Slowly, the remaining kids filed out of the room, until only John and Molly were left. Scowling, Sherlock pointed a trembling finger to the door. The two of them looked at each other before they too left the lab, John slamming the door behind him.

Finally alone, and with the familiar clean smell of the lab to comfort him, Sherlock was free to travel around his brain without stupid interruptions from the outside world. He sat down heavily on the floor, and, for the first time in quite a while, opened the door to his Mind Palace.


End file.
